


The Art of the Deal

by MariaPriest



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 00:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaPriest/pseuds/MariaPriest
Summary: Solo and Kuryakin have a THRUSH microdot and the enemy wants it back. Will they come to a deal?





	The Art of the Deal

_A quiet street in New York City_

Kuryakin hissed a favored Russian profanity as something tripped him and sent him sprawling. He pulled from a breast pocket a very small orange metal box and propelled it along the sidewalk toward his rapidly fleeing partner. "Napoleon!"

Solo stopped. He drew his Special and turned to see a THRUSH goon - one of the three stooges that were chasing them after he and Illya had relieved them of a very important microdot - grab Illya by the hair, wrench him to his knees, and hold a knife to the U.N.C.L.E. agent's throat. He tried not to laugh at the ridiculously incongruous tuft of yellow hair sprouting like corn silk from the top of the thug's fist. Without losing eye contact with his partner or changing the aim of the weapon, Napoleon tried to scoop up the tiny container but ended up kicking it halfway back toward Illya. He started a slow walk toward the four men.

"Hold it right there, Solo," commanded the THRUSH who Napoleon named "Moe." "Give us a free pass to get the 'dot back and I'll make sure this little one" - Kuryakin growled angrily at that description - "and you aren't damaged too badly." To punctuate the threat, he edged the knife deeper into Illya's throat, a millimeter shy of violating skin.

Illya's eyes widened when Napoleon hesitated. "Napoleon, what are you doing?! _Grab it and go!_ "

"Why not kill us both out-right?" Napoleon asked, ignoring Illya's command.

"Better the devil we know, to paraphrase the saying. You and Kuryakin are known quantities. Predictable. Makes it easier for us in the long run. We know you'll do anything to save each other."

Solo chuckled at Moe. "Sorry to burst your bubble, but Kuryakin and I put the mission first, and this one is to get the microdot to headquarters at all costs."

"Then I guess we'll kill you both."

"Ah, maybe we can strike a deal."

"Napoleon, what do you think you're _doing_?"

Moe stared at Solo warily. "Go on."

"I get the microdot and leave unharmed and you keep Kuryakin. Give him to Central and your bosses may not kill you for being total failures. After all, he's a bargain at any price."

Illya let loose with a tirade of curses in multiple languages. He finished with "Traitor! You cannot _do_ this!" Moe pulled harder on his hair and drew the blade along the skin. An inch-wide trail of blood slowly drooled down his neck. 

"You're right. I can't give you over to the enemy. Sorry, partner." He shifted his aim from Moe to Illya. He fired.

"Umph." Terror, disbelief, and betrayal blossomed on Illya's face as blood blossomed on his shirt. The bullet's impact pushed him backwards.

In his own shock and disbelief, Moe let go of Illya's hair, allowing the body to fall back, its dying eyes slowly shuttering. The other THRUSHies - Curly and Larry, as Solo had named them - inadvertently lowered their weapons, both of which had been trained on Napoleon. "Crap!"

"Okay," Solo said nonchalantly as he waved his gun around, "who's next?"

Curly quickly recovered and had Solo in his sights again.

Napoleon, annoyed you-got-me-look on his face, raised his hands. 

"Don't move, Solo. Percy, get the box."

Percy, AKA Larry to Solo, ran hunched over and snatched it.

By now, Moe had shaken off the shock and re-sheathed his knife. "Let's go."

"What about Solo?" asked Curly.

"Leave 'im. Even Waverly won't stand for him murdering his partner. He's done at U.N.C.L.E." 

The THRUSH agents took off running at top speed the way they'd come. They didn't even bother to look back at their U.N.C.L.E. counterparts, trusting Solo not to shoot them.

Meanwhile, Napoleon squatted by his partner but kept an eye on the retreating enemy. 

A minute later, Illya whispered, "Are they gone yet? I tire of this masquerade. My legs are feeling the strain. The blood pack's disgusting. Too much syrup. This vest is impairing my ability to breathe."

"With all your chatter, it must not be impairing you much." Napoleon smiled when he saw the last bird turn the corner far down the street. "And we're good. You are officially resurrected, Lazarus." He took out his handkerchief and began to clean Illya's neck.

With a snort, Kuryakin ripped the 'kerchief from Napoleon's hand. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself." He dabbed at the superficial wound as he straightened his legs out.

"And you so recently risen from the dead, too. How's the chest?"

"It'll bruise. I never should have invented paper wadding bullets. I knew you'd be anxious to test them on me." 

"Stop complaining. The plan worked, didn't it? They have a fake microdot, we have the real one, they think my career is as dead as you, and we can take our sweet time getting back to HQ without fear of being chased and gunned down."

"Why is it that your plans always have me taking the brunt of their sadistic ways?"

"Because, my dear Kuryakin, you could never sell yourself like I can."

Illya rolled his eyes. "That's true. I'm not pompous. I am merely a very good actor."

Napoleon thumped his chest. "You so wound me." He offered Illya his hand.

Illya wrapped his hand around his friend's forearm. Together, they got him to his feet.

"You know, partner mine, you never did tell me what you put on that microdot."

A self-satisfied grin appeared on Illya's face. "Something wonderful they will thank me for someday."

_The main conference room in the Albany, NY, THRUSH satrapy_

"This is not the information from Central!" yelled the satrap while he shook the paper with the transcribed data.

Moe looked mystified. "It has to be. All of us saw Kuryakin put the microdot in this container when he stole it."

" _Idiots_! You saw only what he wanted you to see!"

A chagrined Moe asked, "Well, sir, then what is it?"

The satrap slammed the paper down. "It's Svetlana Kuryakina's recipe for borscht!"

the end  
©2018  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to CoriKay for the beta.  
> Response to a Section VII challenge with prompts of bargain and yellow


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